Without a Trace
by The Consulting Psychic
Summary: Sherlock knows what has happened to Matthew Williams as soon as he reads 'I think he was moving the angel statues that stand beside the gate. He moves them a lot, apparently. He disappeared without a trace.' He knows that he was to take the case, if only to catch one last glimpse of the Mad Man with a Box.


"Sherlock, have you seen my mobile?" John asked, coming down the stairs and into the living area of the flat. "I'm going to be late for work, and Sarah already had to cover my shift once this week because I-"

"You're not going to work today," Sherlock replied, and John was surprised to see that he wasn't sitting in his normal spot. He was standing near the door, coat on, wrapping his scarf around his neck.

"...What? Sherlock, where is my mobile?"

"Hidden."

"Sherlock!"

"We have a case, John. An interesting case. A missing person's case."

John stared at Sherlock for a few moments, and debated bodily searching the taller man for his mobile.

"How long will this take?" he finally asked, already resigned to the fact that, no, he wasn't going to work today.

"Oh, I don't know. It is in Canada, so-"

"Sherlock Holmes, I will not be dragged off to Canada! Now give me my mobile so that I can go to work!" John crossed his arms and waited. There was a long silence in which Sherlock simply stared at the shorter man. "I have work in-"

"Did you not hear me? You're not going to work today. And you're not getting your mobile back until we've arrived in Canada."

John made an exasperated noise, and set his jaw. Sherlock watched him struggle internally for a few moments.

"Let me go and pack."

"Our bags are already in the cab waiting for us."

"Are you ever going to stop touching my things?" John asked as he pulled on his coat.

Sherlock just smiled a small smile.

* * *

Six hours and a plane ride later, Sherlock and John stood on the sidewalk outside the airport in Ontario, loading their three bags into the back.

Once they were in, John read the address from a slip of paper, then sat back as the cab pulled away onto the street.

"So, what're we doing here? I mean, what are we really doing here?" John asked. "Is this something for Mycroft?"

"When do I take orders from Mycroft. No, this is our case and ours alone..." Sherlock took out his phone and pulled up an email. "I received this email yesterday. Of course, I took the case imediately."

John read the email:

_Mr. Holmes,_

_My boyfriend, Matthew Williams, has gone missing. He went to the graveyard about two miles from our home, and that was the last I've seen him. I tried to police in the area, but they say that to file a missing person's case, they have to be missing for at least 48 hours. I can't wait that long, and you're the best. I think he was moving the angel statues that stand beside the gate. He moves them a lot, apparently. He disappeared without a trace._

_Please, Mr. Holmes... you're the best there is, even here in Canada there are stories about you. Name your price. We (his brother and I) just want him back safe._

_-Gilbert Beilschmidt_

"A... missing persons case interested you? I thought that was a four."

"Of course it is, but a certain... phrase caught my eye."

"What phrase? It just seems like he disappeared to me."

Sherlock remained quiet, and his eyebrows furrowed as though he was troubled. John waited for further explanation, but nothing came.

They rode the rest of the way in silence.

* * *

"You two have a nice stay."

The ride was two hours to a large house surrounded by a tall fence. Sherlock paid the cabbie with the Canadian currency that he had 'borrowed' from the case of international money in Mycroft's study the night that he received the email. John gathered their luggage and looked up at the house. Through the ajar gate they could see a Camero with a Nebraska ("Americans..." John said quietly) tag, and a VW Bug with some sort of Canadian tag.

Sherlock strode straight up to the front door, knocked, and waited.

The door was opened by a ghostly pale man with...

"Red eyes?" Sherlock's voice was rudely amused.

"Sherlock!" John elbowed his taller friend.

The man, however, seemed unfazed, and simply gazed at Sherlock.

"Yeah," he said. "Red eyes. Problem?"

Sherlock opened his mouth to reply, but John cut him off in fear of what might come out of his unfiltered mouth.

"Sorry, hi... I'm John Watson. You must be Gilbert." John held out his hand, and the man shook it.

"Yeah, that's me. And you're Sherlock Holmes." Gilbert raised an eyebrow in Sherlock's direction.

"I know."

"Sherlock..." John shot him a warning glance, which was lost because Sherlock's attention was now turned to the cars.

"We'll need to borrow one of your cars to get to the cemetery," Sherlock said loftily.

"They're not mine. One's Alfred's, and he's out searching. The other is Matthew's." Gilbert looked at it doubtfully. "I don't think he'd want you driving his Bug."

Sherlock looked critically at Gilbert.

"Where are you from? Germany?"

"Close enough."

"Well, Mr. Beilschmidt... we're not even sure if Matthew is still alive, and it's too far for us to walk with the rain coming in-"

"Jesus... Ignore him," John said over Sherlock quickly, noticing how pissed off Gilbert was beginning to look. "We'll walk."

John turned and started walking before Sherlock could protest.

"John," Sherlock began when they were about ten minutes into their walk. "There's probably something that you should know about this case... if you see the angels that Matthew was supposedly moving, keep your eyes on them. Don't blink."

"Don't blink? What do you mean?"

"The angels... move, John. I knew what had happened to Matthew the moment I read Gilbert's email... of course I had to come straight away. I suspect that he'll be here soon."

"Sherlock, what're you on about?" Angels.. cement angels... don't move." John struggled to keep up with Sherlock's stride.

"No... not when you're looking at them. He can probably track Matthew back to where the angels sent him."

John was about to ask what the hell he was on about when Sherlock stopped in front of a wrought iron fence that seemed to have appeared from nowhere. He pushed it open.

In the center was a fountain and two benches. Facing the north and south were two, towering cement angels. Each had one hand outstretched, and one hand covering their eyes.

"Keep your eyes on them, John," Sherlock murmured. "I'm going to go-"

"Hey!"

John and Sherlock turned towards the sharp American voice. A tall, blond man with blue eyes framed in glasses walked towards them. As he got closer, they noticed that he had a cluster of hair sticking up in the front.

"What're you doing here? This graveyard is private property, and is closed for investigation. How'd you get in?"

"The gate was open," Sherlock said.

"Sorry... we'll clear out soon," John added. "I'm Doctor John Watson, and-"

"Sherlock Holmes."

The blond stopped in front of them, putting his hands into his brown bomber jacket.

"Right. Gilbert said that he was calling you in. I'm Alfred Jones, Matthew's brother." He glanced behind them. "Did you move the angels?"

Sherlock and John turned quickly.

The angels had stepped off of the fountain, and were facing the small group. Their faces, serene when they had arrived, were now twisted horribly with anger, sharp teeth in their hollow, open mouths.

"John, I told you to keep your eyes on them!" Sherlock snapped.

"Whoa, dudes... did those statues just move?" Alfred asked, eyes wide.

"Yes," Sherlock replied with a soft sigh. "Where is he?"

"Where is who, Sherlock? How are we supposed to leave if we can't look away from them?" John asked, voice tense.

"I... don't know."

Footsteps were approaching them from behind.

"Weeeeell... you can't outrun them." This new voice was oddly accented... Scottish, but with differences. "They're wicked fast, faster than you can imagine."

They watched as a slim, brown haired man in a suit and a brown, floor length jacket appeared before them.

"Who're you?" Alfred asked.

The man grinned, brown eyes lighting up wildly.

"I'm the Doctor."

Silence.

"The Doctor?" John asked finally. "Doctor who?"

* * *

**A/N: Thanks to a friend of mine, Wrenn, for the constructive criticism. I'm not sure what my next update will be. I think I'm about 2/3 of the way done with chapter two of this.**


End file.
